“A battalion ought to make the major happy,” Donegan replied.
“Another hundred men ought to help him drive those red buggers off the heights, for good!” Miles roared.
In his clumsy buffalo-hide overshoes, Seamus had all he could do to keep his footing as he trotted along the shallow slope of the plateau toward the supply train where the stock was corralled when he suddenly became aware of just what he was setting off to do. More than that, it struck him what task Casey’s men—along with those of Butler and McDonald—now had staring them in the eye.
Reaching the horses, he quickly snatched up the reins to Miles’s own big animal, led it away from the rest, then stuffed his buffalo-hide-wrapped boot into the hooded stirrup with no room to spare. Rising quickly, Seamus settled uneasily upon the McClellan saddle, memories washing back over him of past days, past battles fought from a McClellan.
He grumbled a little under his breath as the horse sidestepped beneath a strange rider, trying to find a good place for his tailbone. Pushing back against the cantle, he shoved down on the stirrups as the horse twisted its head nervously, aware that this was not to be an ordinary ride.
“Easy, fella,” Donegan cooed, leaning forward against the animal’s ear.
At least the stirrups felt long enough for what short ride he figured to make of it. He didn’t plan on having his butt banging that ungodly cavalry saddle seat for very long either. He’d ride flat out if the horse was up to it, through the snow and the bullets, taking the weight of it all in his knees, leaning out over the animal’s withers.
“Hep, hep-a!” he urged, kicking the horse in the flanks, moving it out of the corral, where two companies of soldiers had forted up with the wagons.
Raising himself off the saddle, Seamus eased the animal into a lope, working up into a gallop with a little more urging. It seemed eager to run, perhaps eager to gallop if only to get away from the mules and the clatter around the supply train, to be unfettered.
That roar off to his right was the Rodman gun. Pope must be putting his gun crew back to work, perhaps this time to soften up the snowy heights before Casey and the rest went in afoot. Good thinking that was.
But far ahead, low on those slopes, he watched as the black smears became figures, and the figures became men struggling through the snow: slipping, falling down, struggling back up on their hands and knees, attempting to fire a round now and again every few yards they gained.
What if Miles’s offensive did not work? What if Casey and the rest got bogged down in the snow below those cliffs—trapped the way Captain Alex Moore’s men had been trapped on the Powder River last winter*—caught there like sitting ducks, where the warriors would have a field day with them before Casey could withdraw, leading what men he had left still alive? What then?
To fort up with the wagons?
What chance did they stand doing that? Not with this outfit already short on rations … not here in the dead of winter with the thermometer reluctant to rise anywhere close to zero. If Casey’s offensive failed, then that’s exactly what they’d have to do: retreat and fort up. Every man waiting to freeze to death, to starve, or to be picked off by a tightening noose of Sioux and Cheyenne.
What ghost of a chance would any of these men have of making it back to the mouth of the Tongue River alive if this offensive of Casey’s failed?
The heights still bristled with Indians, hundreds of them—all parading back and forth, yelling, blowing their whistles, hurling arrows down among the soldiers.
Every soldier had hoped the two guns would frighten and demoralize the warriors. In the past, artillery had always been successful in accomplishing that. It took the fighting steam right out of the warrior, confused him, and sometimes broke his spirit, his willingness to press on.
But today—that three-inch Rodman and the twelve-pounder simply weren’t accomplishing much of anything beyond making a lot of noise and kicking up a lot of snow when the shells sailed on over the ridgetops. The Indians were still on the heights, and it seemed as if there were more of them than before.
Especially the closer to the base of the buttes he got with Miles’s horse.
Into the back of Casey’s A Company Seamus slowed, swinging out of the saddle even before the horse came to a complete stop. “Major Casey!”
“Here!”
“Donegan—company of scouts!”
The major was close enough now that he started to salute, then instead held his hand out to the Irishman. He anxiously looked out on Donegan’s backtrail across that gently rising, open ground as if expecting more than just one lone man.
Casey swallowed hard. “You’ve come to help?”
Seamus quickly looked left and right at the soldiers, old and young, as they peered at him expectantly. Their cheeks were rosy—a few already frostbitten, gone milky white. Most eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. What eyes weren’t filled with fear were filled with questions.
“I have come to help,” Seamus answered, dragging a mitten under a runny nose. “The general sent me with word.”
Casey grinned, his eyes coming alive as he cheered, “We’re to pull back off this godforsaken slope?”
“I’m afraid not, Major.”
Over the grumbling of the soldiers in the background, Donegan went on to explain what Miles wanted A Company to do in traversing the side of the slope.
“Back there,” Seamus said, turning—finding the soldiers coming—pointing at them. “Take a look. That’s Butler’s company. And McDonald must be right behind him.”
“Butler and McDonald?”
“Yes, Major. They’re coming up to give you the strength it will take to hold the base of this ridge.”
Casey wagged his head. “Don’t you mean the strength I need to
In that instant Seamus looked up at the top of the bluffs, saw the odds staring down at them … and suddenly realized that there was no better place to be than at the center of the action. If he failed here, it would be a quick death. Better than having to retreat, fort up, and die of starvation, or freeze to death.
There was but one choice now.
Donegan looped the reins over the front of the McClellan, then slapped the colonel’s horse on the flank twice to send it on its way. He watched a moment more, the muffled hoofbeats carrying it down the long slope onto the gentle descent of land that stretched toward the river, the corral, and other animals. The big stallion knew where it was going.
He turned back to the officer.
“I’m with you, Major Casey—no matter what now. But I gotta tell you: I don’t think we’re ever going to get your men up this ridge.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed on Donegan, then peered over the scout’s shoulder at those two oncoming companies who would bolster his command. “We’re soldiers, Mr. Donegan. So we’ll do what the general orders.”
Seamus’s eyes smarted as he said, “Very good, Major.”
“You’re the one I heard was a sergeant in the Second Cavalry during the Rebellion? Army of the Potomac?”
“Yes—but that was a long time ago.”
“I’ve always figured a soldier once, a soldier you’ll always be, Mr. Donegan.” Casey tapped the Winchester, then gazed into the Irishman’s eyes. “You any good with that repeater?”
“Fair enough.”
“You feel like leading out this morning, Sergeant Donegan?”
Seamus took a deep breath, looking along the slope they would be traversing, sage and cedar puffing out of the deep snow, broken ground cut by a hundred erosion scars. “When it comes time to charge, there’s no better place to be than at the point, Major.”
“Very good. Sergeant! Form up the men and follow the scout. I’ll wager he’ll see us through this Cakewalk if anyone can.”
The young sergeant nodded. “Lead on, Mr. Donegan.”
